


Irrelevant

by Whreflections



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Addiction, F/M, House/Chase is the central ship here, M/M, and I feel I should warn for Stacy and Cameron, but they have issues, loooots of issues, um...heterosexual boys falling in love?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:45:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, Chase thought his problem was that he'd rather be anything, ANYTHING but in love with House. After the denial stops, he realizes that problem was nothing to all the ones that come after. (Starts in Detox, stays pretty close to canon though there will be divergences.)</p><p>I originally wrote this fic up to chapter 31 about five years ago.  Now that I'm immersed in House again I want to finish it, but all the writing's so old I can't bear to do that without some changes, so if you've read this fic before on ff.net, this versions going to be a bit different.  (Though it still won't completely feel like my more recent fics; I'm not completely rewriting, just editing and adding here and there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Detox

**Author's Note:**

> So about five years ago, I dared myself to write a HousexChase story. Essentially, that’s how this story came into being, but more than that, it was a choice that made me a better writer and a better person. I still had some clinging homophobia from years of being told that homosexuality was a sin, but I was getting deeper and deeper into fandom and being exposed to ships and attitudes and information that was all making me question those beliefs. It was a weird time for me…I’d started to read slash, and I enjoyed it, and I was seeing them as the love stories they were, but I felt guilty for that, because my head was still nagging at me that it was wrong. 
> 
> SO. In the midst of all that, I’d started to read a little House/Chase because I was trying to avoid House/Wilson(longer story, doesn’t matter; I love House/Wilson now <3) and because I was curious about the ship because I just couldn’t see it at all, and as I read I was realizing that at that point, post season 3 ,most of the House/Chase fic out there was just sex. I don’t know what the ship is like now…I’ve been away so long and I’ve not yet started to read fic again because I haven’t finished the show. I’m rewatching from the beginning, so I’m only in season 2 right now. BUT ANYWAY, the point is, on ff.net where I spent all my fanfic time in those years, I couldn’t find a good House/Chase love story. 
> 
> So I decided to write a House/Chase love story, because I didn’t ship it, and if I could delve into it and make it feel real to me, explore just how and why they might actually come together, if I could make myself ship it when I didn’t even understand it going in, maybe I could write a good story. In some ways, I feel I succeeded. I’m proud of my plot, and proud of a lot of the dialogue, but I’m most proud of the fact that I did it…that I branched out and did something that made me uncomfortable as a writer and a person, and it changed me. Not only did I become an actual House/Chase shipper, but it pushed me to question my beliefs even further, a road that led me to where I am today- a Christian who 100% supports equality and gay rights. So I’m sorry this author’s note is so long but…I just have a lot of feelings about the fic and about what my work on it did for my life. 
> 
> Here’s what I didn’t love about the fic, looking back: It’s not as well written as the things I write now; of course it’s not- I was 19. I’m 25, and I have written novel length fics in between now and then. I absolutely do not agree with anyone who says writing fic is practice for writing ‘real’ work; that’s bullshit. Whether or not I ever publish I will write fanfic all my life because it makes me happy. But, I do feel that all writing is practice. You learn as you do, and with every story, fanfic or original work, you get better. Part of what I want to do in editing this fic before I finish it is to polish it up, bring it up closer to the level of stuff I write now without utterly redoing it. It’ll probably still have a slightly different style about it, but I can live with that. Second, I have to address the places in this fic where my hesitation held the boys back. Like I said, I was still struggling with a bit of homophobia, as well as some lingering doubts about whether I should be writing sex scenes…so gay sex scenes gave me all sorts of trouble, lmao I wanted to write them and I was incredibly reluctant to write them, so the result was that I glossed over a lot of aspects of their relationship, which is not ok. They’re practically living together at a couple points here; we need to be seeing what their relationship is really like. (Not to mention, I used similar avoidance with the Cameron and Stacy scenes…those are important events and we really should be seeing the thoughts of both House and Chase, but I avoided those scenes because they made me uncomfortable. One thing I have learned about being a writer is that you have to write the thing that makes you uncomfortable, you have to write it even if it makes you need a drink or if it makes you go outside and cry. 
> 
> There won’t be any more hiding, here. I’ll tell the same story, but I’ll tell it in full, and I’ll tell it to the end. It shouldn’t take me too long to edit through these chapters, and then I’ll be writing new ones, which’ll be interesting because I only know the very last scene. I don’t quite know how we get there, or when that scene takes place. I’ll figure it out as I go. :) Thank you to everyone who’s stood by this story and remained interested in it, even when it seemed like I may never come back. I may fandom hop like a rabbit on crack, but I will always, always come back to the fandoms I love. <3 
> 
> Ok, thank you if you read all of that, lmao On to the story, XD

_Detox_

“This is insane.”  Chase stabbed his salad a little harder than necessary, his fork missing the lettuce he aimed for and instead shoving it across the plastic bowl. 

“No more insane than any of the things House does.”  Foreman shrugged, took a moment to snag a bite off his chicken salad sandwich.  “She’s just trying to make him see he’s got a problem.  You know House communicates in bets; I guess she thought this’d be a good way to do it.” 

Chase let the fork slip from his fingers, dropping to slick lettuce still cushioning the bowl.  “Yeah, but House does what he does to save a patient.  Cuddy’s not saving anybody; she’s just screwing with him for the sake of proving she’s right.”

“She could be saving House’s liver, somewhere down the line.”  God, even Foreman’s grip on his coke was irritating, so light, his hands relaxed and fluid.  Of course he could smile, of course he could eat, could lean back and rest easy in a chair that wasn’t even comfortable.  Foreman didn’t give a damn about House at all beyond how good his name would look on a resume.  Forget empathy for his pain, so long as their case load and his success rate didn’t drop, Foreman wasn’t likely to care if House conducted the differential without any legs at all. 

“Oh come on. Do you really think he’ll stop? He’ll win his month off clinic duty or he’ll crack and he won’t, but either way do you think House is really gonna give up the Vicodin?”

Foreman sighed, tipped his head toward Chase as he dusted crumbs off his fingers. “No. Hell no.”

“Exactly. This isn’t productive; he’s suffering for nothing.”

“And making us suffer.”

Chase fought a grimace, half succeeded.  Of course, what did House’s pain matter when Foreman was enduring the clearly unbearable irritation of getting his head snapped off?   Contrary to what Foreman might think, his time with House hadn’t made him immune to the yelling.  He might hate it, but House’s occasional rage was familiar, bearable.  What Chase _couldn’t_ take had come after, in a glimpse through glass of House as he leaned on the wall.  He’d watched until his eyes burned, and before he blinked, he’d caught the quiver of House’s sleeve as his arm started to shake. 

“Sure.  We’re suffering.  We’ll get through it.  This kid, on the other hand, might not.  He needs House, not us and a cheap imitation.”

“I hope Cuddy realizes that before he’s dead. “

Chase nodded, agreed, continued on as the conversation shifted from their case problems to the new Hispanic nurse in cardiology who had just left the table next to them.  It was all autopilot, his mind drifting upstairs to House’s office, the pain Chase knew he must be in, the question of whether or not he’d be too stubborn to take Vicodin if Chase brought him a script.  Foreman talked about the plans he had for the weekend if they resolved the case by then, and Chase tried and failed to quell the rambling list of facts his mind had begun to supply on nerve damage and muscle death. 

Maybe if he came at it just the right way he could talk House into going home, calling in for the differentials.  

After dinner, he let Foreman head alone for the lab, passing off an excuse about a run to the bank he couldn’t put off.  Everybody lied, after all, even good Catholic boys.  Or, at least, formerly good Catholic boys.

Alone, he headed up to House’s office.

\-------------------------

House sat alone in the dark, dragged down by exhaustion just enough that he’d missed the soft sound of Chase inching open the door, the muted clatter of the blinds as Chase parted them.  He hadn’t properly stirred even after Chase crept across to lean against the desk, though he was far from still.  Chase watched, tracking the way his hand gripped his leg even in sleep, the soft murmurs that escaped his lips, the tilt of his torso to the right.  He was in too much pain to function, too much pain to even sleep properly.  Sure, if Chase was honest, he knew the detox was part of it; he wasn’t blind.  Drug dependence, however, wasn’t the same thing as drug addiction.  Physiologically that might be splitting hairs, but intent mattered.  House needed those pills; any high he got from them was an unavoidable side effect.  No matter what, that was what Chase had to believe.

House’s fingers clenched against the fabric of pants, blunt nails dragging, half catching on the rarely distinguishable lip that Chase knew had to mark the crater in his thigh.  His breath caught, and Chase pushed away from the desk. 

“House?”

House twitched, half whimpered but slept on.  Chase swallowed against the pressure in his throat, crossed the last few feet and let his hand fall to House’s shoulder.  His touch was light and still House jolted awake, angry eyes coming to rest on Chase after a quick flicker forward.  After so long, Chase was no stranger to House’s glares.  He’d been the recipient of a few truly scathing stares, had felt the flinch and absent wonder if his will was current that scorched him his first few months on the job.  He might not be on intimate terms with House, but he and House’s rage had gone a few rounds. 

This look, it couldn’t even muster the firepower to make Chase let go. 

 “Sorry. I just…you weren’t sleeping well.  I thought…”

“I’m in pain! What the hell do you expect?”  House jerked free of Chase’s touch, reached for his cane only to wince and fall back, gripping at his shoulder.  There had to be cramping, muscles strained by the use of his cane that he’d never noticed while with his Vicodin to keep him separate from such trivial pains. 

Before he could think better of it, Chase stepped closer again.  “Relax.  I’m sorry I bothered you but don’t get up, alright?”  Surprisingly enough, House nodded, slightly, half leaned back before he turned and hooked the trash can with his cane, pulling it over far enough to vomit shakily into it. His left arm braced against the wall shook a little harder than Chase remembered from hours ago.  His skin was pale, eyes ringed so dark they almost looked bruised. 

It was too much for Chase to bear.  His hand fell to House’s shoulder again, massaged it soothingly.  Beneath his palm he could feel House shiver, felt it bleed into a little increased pressure until House was leaning into him and away from the wall, shifting back little by little until he reclined in the chair again.  As his head settled back against the headrest, his eyes fluttered closed.  Entranced, Chase grew a little bolder, kneading deep into knotted muscle close to House’s collar.  His head tilted back, throat bared, and Chase dug the nails of his free hand into his palm to try and quell his racing heart.  If he wanted to keep this up, he’d have to keep his eyes on his own hand, on House’s shoulder or his leg, maybe even on the rise and fall of his chest.  Anywhere, _anywhere_ but the expanse of bare skin at his throat that trailed down to his collar, the dark of stubble and the aching curiosity that came from not knowing how it would feel against his lips. 

Every few seconds, House’s breath seemed to grow a little more even, until Chase held his own and reached his left hand up to lay the back of it tentatively against House’s forehead.  His skin was clammy.

“House, if I got you some Vicodin-“

“No.”  He said it soft, eyes still closed, head shaking weakly.  “I want that month off the clinic.”

“This isn’t worth it!”

“Freedom has a high price.”

“This is insane.  At least something for the nausea.”

“No pills.”

“ _House_.”  He was a goddamn idiot.  Most people, they _might_ have been willing to endure pain to get off narcotics.  House was the only one he could think of willing to do it out of sheer spite.  “You don’t have to prove anything, you-“

“Either shut up, or leave.”

Chase licked his lips uncertainly, mouth suddenly dry.  House had, in a strange way, invited him to continue.  How the hell could he pass that up?  He could do this much to help, at least.  House had enjoyed the massage the day before, but he’d been half sure that was only due to the ridiculously beautiful woman who gave it.  At the time he’d been jealous, but if this worked...

Chase gave a last squeeze to House’s shoulder before dropping to his knees, his movements slow and hesitant as he settled his hand flat against House’s thigh.  Slowly, but not quite slowly enough.  House tensed, his hand shooting out to grab Chase’s wrist.  Still, his eyes didn’t open, and though Chase’s breath came out a little shaky, he didn’t pull back. 

“Wait, it helped yesterday, didn’t it?  It makes sense, if a massage can ease the muscle, eases the pain.”  Or the endorphins induced by the massage would make him feel like the pain was eased; either way, he didn’t stand to lose anything for the sake of the attempt. 

House was either in too much pain or too sick to argue.  His grip went slack, and Chase pressed down, tentative until he felt out the edges of the old wound.  They’d taken more than he expected.  The hole was jagged, ridged with uneven skin that had knotted itself into painful scar tissue, though that had to be a drop in the ocean compared to the pain the nerve damage itself could cause.  He started slow, his tracing movements circular, pressure increasing as he sought out those places where he could clearly feel the damaged muscle beneath, stretched taut. 

House moaned, whisper soft, his fingertips brushing Chase’s arm as he pulled his hand completely away to give Chase free rein.  God, this was going to take reserves of self-control he didn’t know he had, the kind they’d sworn back in seminary would be their salvation from sin.  He’d never been all that good at resisting temptation, and he sure as hell couldn’t deny the heat that had shot through his body at that sound.  It made his head swim with a dozen ways to erase the context, to imagine how that sound would feel instead as a vibration against his tongue. 

He couldn’t let himself dwell on it, not here, not when this was in itself enough and more than he would’ve expected.  There was, after all, intimacy in this too, in the way House let him touch, let his fingers probe and search, the way he seemed to rise just a little here and there into Chase’s still steady fingers.  At the press of the heel of his palm House sighed, and Chase felt a surge of affection for him so intense he thought stupidly that if he could, now would be the moment he’d wrap House up in his arms, now, while he was too limp to protest much. 

 _He’s only letting you this close because he’s in pain, you idiot. He’s using you._ He had to remember, had to keep it in mind because, after all, intent mattered.  His, and House’s.  He was willing enough to be used, but he couldn’t let himself be fooled.

Soon, House’s steady breathing told Chase he had dropped off to sleep.  Peacefully, this time.  Chase pushed himself up from the flow, wincing a bit at the protestations of his knees.  He could feel the imprint of the carpet, but House was limp in that chair, arm hanging over the side.  That would have been worth another hour on the floor, easy. 

He was out hard, enough that he didn’t stir when Chase moved to step away.  After resisting so much, the temptation to touch was too great.  He kept it light, just the pads of his fingers against House’s cheek because in case he did wake, in case he asked, it was nothing, nothing but shifting his head over so his neck wouldn’t hurt(though he didn’t dare actually try to move him, not an inch).

Mumbling in his sleep, House turned into the touch, nuzzling against his hand before going still again.  Chase froze, breath caught in his chest for a dizzying 30 seconds or so before he could bring himself to draw his hand away.  He flexed his fingers, bit his lip and counted off another minute or so, though there was nothing to wait for.  House was asleep.  He didn’t know what he was doing; obviously.  Could have been anyone there, nothing more than a response to stimulus.  At most, he’d stirred up an old memory.

Looking down, his head told Chase he should’ve seen only his mother, passed out on the couch with a flask trailing from her fingers, but the whisper of _it’s not like that; he’s not like her_ was louder.  He thought instead of pre-med, a few months in Sydney of waking up next to a girl who stayed up late and slept in, a musician who’d still be curled in sunbeams in his bed when he popped in around noon.  It had always made him smile to see her there, sometimes with the sleeves of his shirt swallowing her arms, falling down over her hands.  She’d been so beautiful then, but here House was, fully clothed and untouchable and in his damn office chair and Chase’s chest still hurt, his ribs too tight.  The way the lines on his face had smoothed just a little, the limp fall of his wrist…

It was better.  It was better, and it shouldn’t have been, and he was a fucking idiot.  _Snap out of it, Chase; for God’s sakes._

Shaking his head to clear it, he slid from the room without a sound.

\-------------------------------------

_5 Days Later_

As usual, Chase was the last one of the underlings to leave the office.  He passed House on his way out, sprawled in his chair, headphones in.  He’d had his drugs back a day already and still he was basking in the glory of it.  Just this evening, Chase had caught him popping an extra pill, half hidden after a bite of sandwich.  They could only hope his good mood would last a week or so.  “G’night, House.”

House looked up, slid his hand in his pocket and pulled out his iPod, pausing it. “What?”

Chase shrugged.  “Just saying goodnight.  I’m heading home.”

“Last one to leave…nothing to go home to, but then neither do they.  Just slow, or is there something else you wanted to say?”

 _Yes._ “No.”

“Ok.”  Chase’s hand was on the door when he spoke again.  “Would you really have brought me Vicodin?”  For a moment, Chase considered pointing out that rather than merely a sign of reluctant patients, the phenomenon of the doorknob question seemed a base human trait.  He licked his lips, hesitated, decided against it. 

“What?”

“The other day, would you really have brought me Vicodin if I’d agreed?”

Chase stalled, one finger tapping on the glass.  He knew his answer to this would be important.  “I…yeah. I would’ve.”  He should have elaborated more, but it was all he could say.  He looked over at House, almost certain he could see the wheels turning, see House filing him away as a drug connection.  He wasn’t surprised to find he didn’t much care.

“Foreman tried.”

That, he hadn’t been expecting.  “Foreman? Not Cameron?”

“Shocking, isn’t it? She’s the only one who didn’t.  I’ll have to try to figure out what that says later.  Right now, I’m trying to figure out you.”  House cut his eyes at him, a dark edge in them, a slight grin on his face.  “Like where you learned how to give a massage.”

Chase looked away, heart thudding.  He loved and hated the way House was looking at him. If House knew…God, he’d never hear the end of the teasing.  “See you tomorrow.”  He was out the door before House could say anything else.


	2. Sports Medicine

_(Sports Medicine)_

“We’ve stabilized his heart rate.”  Exhausted, Chase leaned against the glass doorframe until the pressure hurt.  If he was going to stay on his feet, he needed the reminder to stay awake.  He had thought for a while there they were going to lose this guy for sure, but now that the immediate triumph was wearing off, the question of just how many hours straight he’d been awake was starting to trickle in.  House had his back to him, staring intently at the whiteboard, cane tapping on the surface.

“Good.”

“He’s hallucinating now.”

“Not so good.” House left the board to pour himself another cup of coffee, and Chase swallowed a pang of guilt.  House’d be here all night, no question, and he’d just been thinking about ducking out.  “What’s the hallucination?”

“His manager, mostly.  A couple of teammates at one point, I think.”

House finally turned, eyebrows rising when he saw Chase.  “Damn, you look awful.”

“You spend God knows how many hours trying to stabilize an uncooperative heart and tell me how _you_ look.”

“Your sacrifice of beauty was worth it, Cinderella; you succeeded.  So either go find me something that explains all those systems or go home, shower, sleep, speak to your fairy godmother, and be here early.”

Chase sighed, resigned himself to another fifteen minutes at least.  He pushed off the door frame and snagged a chair, immediately sinking into it.  “I don’t know what could cause it. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Obviously.”  House sipped his coffee in silence.  Chase seized the opportunity to change the subject, before House came up with another theory that couldn’t be a theory but that would take him another twenty minutes to shoot down.  Plus, honestly, he had a couple questions of his own. 

“Makes about as much sense as you taking Cameron to a monster truck rally.”

“What part surprises you, that I love monster trucks or that I asked Cameron?”

“Both.  But I’ve known you love monster trucks, I just don’t understand why.”  He didn’t, not even a bit, but that had never detracted from the way he loved to watch House watching.  Moments like that he reminded Chase of the daredevil boy he must have been, history captured in the blink-and-you’d-miss-it flick of light at the moment the truck’s tires left earth.  Endearing; that was the word.  It was unnervingly endearing.  “And why did you ask Cameron?”

House shrugged.  “She was there, she wasn’t busy…”  House trailed off, his face suddenly more solemn. “What’s Wilson doing Friday night?”

“Cancer dinner.”  Even as he was speaking, House was shaking his head.

“Cameron said he cancelled.”

“But he blew you off?”  It came out before he realized what he was saying.  Chase winced internally, cursing himself for the increase in the darkness in House’s eyes when he said it.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like it just; that’s just so odd.  I can’t imagine-“

House reached in his coat pocket, shook his pill bottle and tossed back a Vicodin.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does. He’s your best friend.”  Chase felt sick, angry at Wilson for hurting House and angry at himself for bringing it up.  Mostly, he was angry at Wilson.  “Maybe he has a good reason.”

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What the hell for? It isn’t your fault. You’re not even involved.”

“Can’t I ever feel empathy for another person?”

House rolled his eyes.  “No. You do it too much.”

“Not as much as Cameron.”

House deposited his half full coffee cup by the sink.  “Yeah, well she’s the only one that can reach that incredible level of self-punishment.”  Slowly, he crossed the room to stand over Chase.  “I’m taking her because it was easy to.  Because she likes me, and she wouldn’t say no.”  He switched hands with his cane, right hand splayed across the glass table top and leaned in closer. “And why are you so curious?  Unless…”

He let the statement hang for a moment, watched Chase fight the urge to squirm, his eyes carefully on the floor instead of on House.

“Maybe I should have asked you.”

Chase laughed, soft and humorless.  “Right. Hate monster trucks, sorry.”

“ _You_ like me.”

House was grinning, a jackal with a cornered hare.  Chase wondered if House could sense the race of his pulse, tried frantically to squash the thought when it only made his heart fight harder.  “Course I don’t.”

House cocked his head, leaned an inch or so closer.  “See, you say no, but you won’t look at me.  Oh, this is _fun_.”

Chase jerked his head up, met House’s gaze with enough fury that he hoped it masked everything else.  “Drop it, House.”  He stood up, pulling his chair backwards to step away as quickly as possible.  Chase even made it all the way to the door without looking back, his eyes on the carpet, on the smudged fingerprints in whirls against the metal handle he gripped.  “I don’t like you.”

“They teach you to lie like that in seminary?”

If it would have been any other door, Chase would have slammed it behind him.

\-------------------------------------

_The following Monday morning_

The newspaper was slammed down in front of Chase with surprising force.  Of course, working where he did, nothing should surprise him anymore.  “Good morning.  Done the crossword yet?”

Chase blinked, turned around in his seat to focus on House.  “Ah…no.  I just woke up an hour ago, just walked in the door and sat down.  We don’t have anything pressing, so I’m not really awake yet.”

“Your loss.  Oh well. You’ll have plenty of time.  After you’re done doing my clinic hours for me. There’s a game on I wanna watch on ESPN, then there’s General Hospital.”

Chase rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, I’ll get right on it.”

“You should. I’m your boss.”

“We all do our own clinic hours.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t do mine.”

Chase wandered over to start the coffee.  “Course not. Why would I not be excited about extra clinic hours?”

“Do I detect sarcasm? That’s not very nice you know.”

“Neither are you.”

House laughed at that, just a little.  “Nice.”

Damn, they were down to the last coffee filter.  Chase shook it out of the box, slowed his movements to focus on his hands. “So, what’s with your mood? Date with Cameron go well?”  As he asked, he crushed the box with rather more force than necessary and hoped House still had his back to him.

“Sure.  But it wasn’t a date.”

“Right.  Just sounded that way.  And looked that way.”  He shoved the coffee pot into the slot.  “That’s how she took it, you know.”

“I know.  You jealous?”

He had noticed House’s voice growing closer, but he hadn’t been paying attention to how close.  When Chase turned, he had little personal space left.  Reflexively he backed up a step, stopped by the cabinet.  “Cut it out, House.”

“Mmmm….”  House scrunched up his face, too amused to pass for thoughtful, not when Chase knew his looks so well.  “No. See, if there was nothing to my suspicions you wouldn’t have backed away, just pushed past me.  Most people have a thing about personal space, sure, but proximity to a non-stranger isn’t enough to make anyone nervous unless-“

“You make me nervous because you’re creepy.”  Chase moved to pass him, stopped when House caught his arm.  House’s hand was warm, calloused and sure.  If his grip hadn’t been so tight, it wouldn’t have mattered.  Chase was frozen. 

“Maybe you like creepy.”  Their eyes met, emerald on electric blue and House was so damn close, his fingers clenched on Chase’s arm. Too close.  Chase yanked his arm away, hated the way his breath pulled up short when he did.  He’d been frozen what, ten seconds?  Longer?  He hadn’t pulled away; House wouldn’t have missed it.  Chase had no clever excuse ready, nothing but anxiety and the urge to put as much ground between him and House as possible.  He was close enough that Chase could smell the scent of body wash clinging to his skin. 

“Go to hell.”  Chase veered left and headed for the door, ready to be anywhere but there.

“I’ll get right on that. Meanwhile, you go for me. It’s downstairs, and make sure you sign my name in the book.”

Chase didn’t reply.

\--------------------------------------

House didn’t knock on Wilson’s door, just shoved it open and settled down in the chair across from the desk.  “So.  Stacy.  How was she?”

Wilson let his pen drop, nodded before he looked up, before he even tried to speak.  “She was…good.  She seemed happy.”

House tipped his head forward, let out the breath he hadn’t exactly meant to hold. “Good.  That’s good.”  He tapped his cane on the floor to a rhythm only he could hear, some half remembered song from the day before.  “She ask about me?”

“Of course she asked about you.”

“What did you tell her?”

Wilson busied his fingers with a folded paperclip, smoothing and straightening a barely existent bump.  Whatever was coming, it wouldn’t be the truth, not all of it.  “I told her you were fine.”

House snorted. “She saw right through that.  You are _such_ a bad liar.  I don’t know how your wives ever fall for it.”

“She saw through it because she knows you.  But, I think she wanted to hope I was right.”

“Right.”  Because there was no way on earth to determine his well being without asking Wilson; none at all.  It wasn’t like she still had his number or anything, wasn’t like he’d written her, two months after he moved.  If she was so crushingly concerned, she could have called.  “You two have a good time catching up?”

“Yes…where is this going?”

“Nowhere.”  House shoved the chair back, grabbing his cane and heading for the door.

“Are you sure we’re done talking about this?  No other questions no…I don’t know, something else?”

“Why? It’s not like I can talk to her about any of it.”  The look Wilson gave him then was pained and concerned and he bristled.  “I’m _fine_.”  With a deep breath he softened, just a little.  “Just wanted to make sure she was alright.  Some people confide in you.”

“Certainly not you.”

“What do you want me to tell you, Jimmy?  My deepest, darkest secrets?”

Wilson leaned back in his chair, eyes casting over him with that look that said he was cataloguing, catching House’s grip on his cane, the set of his mouth, the tint of his eyes.  When it came to the two of them, Wilson was smarter than almost everyone gave him credit for; House had learned that long ago.  

“I’d take a pretty basic secret.”

“Sorry, all out of those.”  House’s hand dropped to the door handle and he tilted his head, half looking back with a smile he knew would just catch Wilson’s eye.  “Oh, by the way- Chase has a crush on me.  See ya at lunch.”  He yanked the door open in one movement, disappearing while Wilson’s mouth was still hanging open.

 


End file.
